Footsteps of the Past (Second Chances #2) - Felice Stevens Page 0,1
circulate in the crowd. It wouldn’t be smart to drink too much—he’d read horror stories of people getting drunk at these functions and ruining their careers before they even had a chance to start. Not him. He knew how quickly a good thing could be taken away, and he had no intention of losing the shot at a life he’d worked so hard to create.
Across the room he spotted not only Professor Martin Williamson, but Francis Turcotte, the president of the university, walking toward him. Nerves skittered through him. He couldn’t imagine why he’d drawn the attention of two of the most powerful people in the school. Except when they spoke, it wasn’t him they addressed.
Turcotte halted in front of him. “André, there you are. I wanted to make sure you met Professor Williamson, in case you couldn’t stay the entire evening. Knowing your busy schedule, we’re thrilled you were able to make it tonight.”
“Francis, I’m sorry, but I seem to have lost your champagne.” Chess’s stomach bottomed out, and he gazed mutely at the man. “I’m having a nice conversation with…” He grinned at Chess. “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”
Having no clue what the hell was going on, Chess said, “Chester. Chester Braxton.”
Williamson and Turcotte stared at him with a mixture of surprise and confusion on their faces, and then Williamson greeted him. “Hello, Chester. I hope you’re enjoying yourself. I see you’ve met André Webster.”
Chess’s mouth fell open in surprise, and he stared at the man, who raised his glass, hiding his smile behind it.
“André Webster of Webster Properties? One of the trustees of the university?”
“Surprise.” André’s blue eyes twinkled, and a dimple appeared in the crease of his cheek. Chess could’ve fainted from embarrassment. Or swooned from the man’s sheer sensuality. He managed to find his voice.
“I-I thought you were a waiter.”
“Which leads me to believe it’s high time to change my tailor. I obviously need a better-quality tuxedo.”
Chess snorted, and heat rose in his cheeks. “I’m sure that won’t be a problem. I’ll let you gentlemen speak. It was nice to see you again, Martin, President Turcotte. Mr. Webster, it was nice to meet you, and thank you for keeping me company.”
He walked away and found several colleagues he’d spoken to during his orientation. He greeted them, making casual conversation for a while. He spotted André Webster with other high-ranking faculty members, and their eyes met. Webster smiled and winked at him. Chess’s cheeks burned, and he turned away. With a glass of champagne in hand, he wandered over to the spread of food and nibbled on a few hors d’oeuvres, planning to slip out the door as unobtrusively as possible.
“To whom do I complain about the sad state of affairs of the cheese?” André Webster’s deep voice whispered in his ear, and Chess’s lips twitched.
“I couldn’t say.”
“Well, then maybe you’ll say yes to having dinner with me.”
“Dinner?” A thrill of anticipation shot through him. “When?”
“Now. I’m dying of boredom, and the only interesting part of the evening was talking to you. I’d like to continue that, but in a much more romantic setting.”
“Romantic?” Chess licked his lips. “Isn’t that coming on strong, considering we don’t know each other?”
“I plan on changing that tonight. I have a feeling you’re going to be the last man I ever ask on a date.”
The implication of his words shocked Chess. Without protest, he allowed André to take him by the hand and lead him out the door. They entered the waiting limo, Chess acutely aware that André still held his hand.
As in almost all his business decisions, Chess learned, André proved to be right. After that first dinner at an unassuming restaurant tucked away in Tribeca, they’d become inseparable. That was almost nine years ago.
Shaking off the memory of that night, Chess asked, “How’s Margery?”
He and André’s mother had an odd relationship. Though she was always pleasant to him, he never felt completely at ease with her, as if she saw right through his facade. Of course she didn’t—no one did, not even his best friends—but it bothered him that she always introduced him as André’s friend, never partner, as though she didn’t want to give him equal weight in their relationship. Occasionally he’d ask André if she ever mentioned him, and André’s response remained the same: “She’s never said one bad word about you.”
Which told him almost nothing. She’d never said a good thing either. On the opposite side of the coin, he and André’s father,